Drunken misery, sober ending, oh god.

By defination I fear people who are, by correct terms, ‘not all mentally there’. This includes the insane, the mentally retarded and the drunk. I fear drunk people perhaps the most because, well, there’s different types. And if I could blast this music any louder I would, I’d drown out my thoughts.

I can deal with being burned slightly by the cigarette of a drunk, it was an accident, and I can deal with having a bag with a hole in it. That’s fine.

But lost in New York City, taking care of our drunk guide who can’t speak correctly, is so drunk she can hardly stand–that… No. That isn’t okay.

I hate something and it’s drinking. And it’s drunk people. I. Hate. Drunk. People. So much. Why do people feel the need to escape like that? I hate Laura when she’s drunk too. I hate everyone when they’re drunk. It isn’t okay at all, and I loathe kids who drink. What’s so bad that you need to get wasted and stumble about?

I escape reality in a different light, sure, but this is different. At least I know where I am and I’m not a blithering idiot! I’ll never drink, ever. I never want to become like that.

Fuck everything.

How could anyone do something so… immature? Careless? Leaving two fucking teenagers to figure their way around New York City? Are you fucking retarded? So self centered? Irresponsible?

I’ve never felt so helpless before. Each moment was another step another ‘What do we do now?’ Another step into the heart of the city. A crowed, gay-obsessed, parade-filled city. Holding onto a laughing stumbling drunk who announced it every two seconds, who repeated the same questions over and over again, who aimlessly wandered into traffic.

“You’ve got to take your meds.”

Hysteria strikes and it’s all one can do to keep back the rush of emotion. Head spinning, walls closing in, throat tightening, the urge to scream out tears through, noise–static–fills the room. Like bees buzzing over head, a cloud of noise surrounds. Painful rage rips through, sorrow clawing at it–

It’s coming from the inside, ripping its way out. Anxiety is a bitch.

All over waiting for a text message. “You’ve got to remember to take your meds,” he says and I bow my head and nod. I remember. I take them at different times. I haven’t been serious.

And I haven’t fucked up my arm so badly before. I tore at the first thing I could find, rage, sorrow, the need to get the anxiety out of me feeling. I didn’t do it for release. I did it because I was upset, it became my escapegoat. Biting down hard, tearing at the skin, grinning twistedly.

Good you little bitch it’s what you deserve, echoing loudly in my head. Again, do it again. Nails digging down upon flesh, rip, rip, rip. Make it hurt. Make it feel. The need to feel something grew urgent. The need to be alive, to be something that under the waves of anxiety was urgent. The hate for nothing, the pain.

A large sickly yellow and disgusting blackish purple spotted black and blue is all that remains, which coveres a lot of the arm. It hurts. It’s what I get, I suppose, as punishment for not being in control. I can’t even lightly touch it without such horrible pain.

I know I should tell Kathy, and I know I shouldn’t downplay it. I downplay everything, but I’m in serious shit. I’m in the habit again, and I’m attacking seen points. Of course, they’re unnoticable with the clothing I wear.

But why am I attacking seen points?Am I subconsciously asking for help? Or is it just the first thing I notice to attack in my urgent disorder. I stumble a lot, black and blues aren’t hard to explain, and often its just assumed that I hit a wall again.

“You’ve got to take your meds,”
People only say that to fucked up people.
Am I fucked up?

744 Hopkins ST, yeah fucker.

My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone, in fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others.

It hits close to the recent rage that brews silently within, but it misses, if only just, for I haven’t wanted pain for anyone in a very long time, not since the days of childhood where I daydreamed about killing the people who called themselves my friends. No, not even do I wish Sam to feel the tiniest bit of upsetness, though I do sometimes have an urge to rub it in her face that Will’s much happier, I still, then, have no feeling to cause her any type of pain. Just an understanding that she failed.

I don’t have any desire to cause pain. Not anymore. It’s just a silent rage that fills me with the bitter taste of betrayal. Over what? The end of school? Has my twisted mind warped it so that everyone has abandoned me or am I so indifferent and cruel that I’ve been waitin for this moment? That I’ll keep up the smile, hug everyone, and at graduation I’ll say “Talk to you later” only to delete Facebook and myspace and change my number.

If only. Is that what I want, or is it my fear for being left? Leave them before they can leave me, or what? Running is what I do best, isn’t it? I give people what they want, I say the things that I’m suppose to say, I spend amounts of time with them, buy them things, comfort them–but do I feel anything?

My therapist says I do. So am I fooling myself? Do I care and this is all a defense mechinism?

I find myself turning off my phone, sinking into myself, hiding. My anxiety creeps, and without the pills I’d full out have run by now. I wanna scream “I HATE ALL YOU FUCKERS GO AWAY”, but is it true? How can I be unsure of my own feelings? How can I act so happy and so caring if I don’t actually? Do I? Or don’t I? Why do I constantly feel two different things at once?

I’m so so terribly anxious, if effects everything. Maybe I’m like my mother. Maybe I’m just bipolar. Fuck.

Who the hell?

My anxiety grabs and pulls and tugs. Ohh, she must know, she must know that it makes me sick, and that I’m sick easily. My mind swirls in a thousand different directions and fades into blankness, and I become sick in the stomach. I wanna shove it in your face.

Having a pictures with you in his boxers is weird. Calling him after he tells you he never wants to speak to you again, is weird. Having an old picture of him in his boxers laying around… is weirder.

Why do you talk to me? Why?

An echo in the world of silence

Amazing. Simply amazing.

It’s the way the words roll off your tongue in a breathless manner, power surging behind what you say and your blue orbs dancing with admiration, like you adore me. Your warm fingertips glide over my chilled arms and you tug me close.

Amazing.

Your breath is warm against my lips and my eyes flutter shut, you close the distance, brushing your lips against mine and moving past me leaving me breathless with a giddy, schoolgirl, smile.

Eight months and you keep getting more and more charming to me. You know all my favorite spots, you know all the right things to say. And you hold me so perfectally.

To each his own, so where do I fit?

I understand I don’t fit into the new American Dream. I really shouldn’t have been in this time, but I’m glad I am. In the 50s, early 60s, it would have all been alright. It’d have been expected.

Now EVERYONE is expected to go to college. Feed the machine! Keep our country, our economy, afloat! Do now, buy now, learn now! Do, do, do, must, must, must.

But what of what I want? Oh, I’m only 18, what could I possibly know? Well, for starters, I know myself, and I know what makes me happy. True, there was a drastic–drastic–change from 17 to 18, every little thing I thought would be important faded into dust. I’ve done some strange growing up, I’m learned more about myself. It’s… strange. And surely more change is on its way, I won’t deny that. But I can’t refuse what I’ve always fancied.

Housewife. Even as a child, I wanted that. I want that now. I want to get married and have children and rely on a man, there. I said it. This is what would make me very happy, this is what I want for myself. I don’t want to go to college, I don’t want an important job, I don’t want any of that.

But, of course, that takes away from the plan. Oh the great, fictious, plan I’ve created to appease my parents.
“Well, I’ll go to OCCC for two years, and transfer to Empire Online to get my Masters.” and the “Well, we have to be dating for at least five years, and living with one another for a year, before marriage is even a question…”
Oh yes, of course. And yeah, I believe marriage is a no-divorce type of thing, that’s why I’d stick to it…
But I want it now.

I don’t want my little scratch to go away. I really haven’t gotten negative responses about it other then Will and Molly–Molly checks up on me now, and Will…he has a way about him. Regardless, I love it. I love seeing it, being reminded of it. Sure, the action brings shame, terrible shame, but…. other then that, I love staring at it when I have the chance, or running my fingers over it. It’s a constant buzz, sometimes, the urge that springs up. Like a scratch you can’t itch.

There’s an addiction, the pouring relief of pain. Of that sick twisted state where it’s beautiful. God, it’s beautiful, to damage. To hate. To deserve. It was mine, and I don’t want it to go away. I know I said I was above cutting, and I am, nails don’t count! They don’t. And I know it isn’t my usual. Always the legs. Stab and burn, always. But I like this one. I like seeing my pet. My precious. My little scratch that’s all mine that I made. I want it forever. I want a permante one, one that’s an old scar to run my fingers over.

But I can’t. For Molly, for Will, for the way they worry over me. For the way he scoops me up and tells me its gonna be okay, I couldn’t, and I won’t, but I’ll dream.

So I’ll work on it. I’ll use my nails and I’ll just redo it forever. Only I won’t.

And here comes the money issues.
60 dollars a week for him.
20 for me.
Yeah, it sounds great, right?
Naw.
Gas. Food. Car problems.
And whatever else there is; Movies. Out to Eat. Video Games.
It’s a struggle, and we’ve actually had to cut back. Somedays I don’t get a pepsi for a week.
we need to save:
For Six Flags. About 234 dollars.
To Fix his car/belt: 90 dollars.
Alien: 5,000 dollars
School: D:< Who knows?
Zune: 200?
PSP: 200?
A new computer to play sims 3: over 200
Rock Band 2: 189
And my obsessions. Can’t forget those and how much I spend on them. Oh lord. Kathy says I’m Obsessive Compulsive. But she also thinks I has a Thinking Disorder and ADD.

Distractible speech, Incoherence–word salad?, Phoenemic paraphasia, Semantic paraphasia…

Pills for everything, a label for everything. Can’t I be fine…? A bit strange, but fiiiine. Oh god.